It's Nothing Personal Read Online Free PDF Page A

station, and her mother started to steer their car into the parking
lot.  
    “No, Mom,” said Hillary firmly.   “I’m going in alone.   Just drop me off in front.”
    At first, Janice was hurt that Hillary did
not want them to come with her, but she also had to respect her daughter’s
wishes.   She reluctantly pulled in
front of the police station and glanced back at her daughter.   Hillary’s hair was still dirty and
stringy, she had not bothered changing clothes, but she had put on some
makeup.    Unfortunately, the
dark eyeliner only accentuated the bags under Hillary’s eyes.  
    Hillary sprang up between the front seats
and gave each of her parents a kiss on the cheek.   Without saying another word, she opened
the car door and walked up the cement steps to the entrance of the police
station.   Reaching the glass doors,
Hillary contemplated looking back toward her parents.   Instead, she chose to focus straight
ahead and entered the station.
    Janice watched her daughter disappear into
the gloomy building.   Once Hillary
was out of sight, Janice’s body went limp, and a torrential flood poured from
her eyes.   Harold reached over from
the passenger seat and turned off the car’s ignition.   He held his wife tightly as they both
wept.   Neither of them said the
words, but at that moment, they both knew their daughter was gone forever.

 
    CHAPTER 5

 
    Hillary shuddered as the glass door of the
police station slammed behind her.   She could not escape thoughts of iron bars clanking shut and locking her
in, which was how she feared her day would end.   The warm, summer air instantly vanished,
replaced by a cold blast from the building’s air conditioner.   Hillary forced herself to move forward,
each step requiring a quantum amount of strength.  
    Inside the lobby, Hillary spotted an
information desk staffed by a middle-aged, overweight female cop, busy on a
phone call.   The officer caught
sight of Hillary approaching and defensively held her finger up in Hillary’s
face in a shushing gesture.   Hillary
closed her mouth and waited.   While
the policewoman continued her conversation, Hillary turned around and studied
her surroundings.
    This was not Hillary’s first time inside a
police station.   She had been
arrested several times for petty crimes – shoplifting, underage drinking,
and possession of marijuana.   This
station resembled all the others.   The cracked tile floor was permanently stained by years of dirt and
grime.   Fluorescent lights provided
a depressing, artificial glow.   Uniformed officers meandered this way and that.   Some carried cups of coffee, while
others guided handcuffed men and women to their destinations.   Random, undecipherable squawks from
police radios provided a unique form of white noise.   People from every sector of society,
ranging from drug dealers to middle-aged soccer moms, filled the station.
    Five minutes later, the phone call
ended.   With blatant irritation, the
officer asked Hillary, “Can I help you?”
    Unappreciative of the officer’s attitude,
Hillary smacked her gum a couple of times and then answered, “Yeah, I’m here to
meet Detective Morris.”
    “Your name?”
    “Hillary Martin.”  
    Hillary impatiently tapped her fingers on
the officer’s desktop.   The woman
scowled at Hillary’s hand, refusing to do anything until the drumming
ceased.   Thirty seconds later,
Hillary stopped.
    The policewoman pointed to a row of chairs
across the lobby.   “Go take a seat.”
    Hillary wanted nothing more than to give the
officer a piece of her mind, but she held her tongue and walked away.   It turned out that Hillary did not have
time to sit in one of the filthy chairs before she noticed two large men in
dress shirts with identification badges around their necks headed straight for
her.   Once they were within feet of
her, Hillary read their names.   The
taller, older man with graying hair, a small gut, and a prominent